


Night On The Town

by EchoThruTheWoods



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 06:59:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14764823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EchoThruTheWoods/pseuds/EchoThruTheWoods
Summary: Hellmasker and Vincent Valentine had made a deal, and Hellmasker intended to collect. Companion piece to "Foundling."





	Night On The Town

**Author's Note:**

> In "Foundling" Chapter 46 ("Chip"), Vincent makes a deal with Hellmasker in return for Mask's help in removing Nero's microchip. There are rules. Mask breaks most of them ;)

Hellmasker didn’t get out much. It wasn’t for want of trying: He begged, whined, wheedled and grumbled all the time, but Valentine said no.

It was Not Fair. It was Mean. It was Selfish, he almost always said no.

Almost. 

He’d made a deal with Mask, asked him for help with his son. Seemed Baby Valentine had gotten a thing lodged in the back of his skull, a nasty little firecracker that might go bang and take off his head. That would be interesting to see, but Valentine wanted him alive, so they bargained. 

He promised Mask thirty days out in the world in return for his help. It felt like forever since Mask had been outside for that long. Of course Valentine said it couldn’t be all in a row--giving with one hand, taking with the other, the selfish bastard. Still, thirty days!

It wasn’t as simple as Valentine had claimed. The kid didn’t want to live, anyone could see that. Why should Mask do Valentine’s dirty work? So he tried to weasel out of the annoying part of the deal by leaving the fireworks behind when he whisked the shell out of the boy’s head. 

Turned out there was a surprise hiding in the boy’s soul, another winged lord like that pain in the ass, Chaos. Big Brother Omega wasn’t happy with Mask, and got physical, but in the end, he let Mask go. 

Even Omega felt sorrier for Mask than Valentine did. Something to think about.

Mask had had his first day out with Baby Valentine and his little playmate with the blue hair. It was fun, even if they wouldn’t let him go anywhere interesting, or do anything on his own. But tonight - tonight was different.This night, Valentine fell into stasis, dead-sleep, just like Mask knew he would sooner or later. Mask had been waiting for this. 

Tonight, no one was going to stop him from enjoying himself. 

He slid out of bed, slow and careful. Bronze-Veld stirred, one amber eye questioning with a glance.

“Be right back,” Mask murmured, leaning over him. Oh, it was tempting,  _ so  _ tempting to stay, and take what he craved! He stole a kiss, deep and warm, a sweet memory that no one could take from him, to savor later in the shadows of Valentine’s mind. Bronze settled back into sleep, all unknowing, mouth curved in a slight smile, and Mask slipped away.

He raided his host’s closet first; couldn’t go roaming the city in only his skin, some killjoy would be sure to call the law on him. Black jeans, long-sleeved tee-shirt, and ah! A black leather jacket, butter-soft. Instead of boots, he found rubber-soled shoes, perfect for running silently and climbing. Then he was down the hall and out the front door, breathing in the crisp night air. 

How long had it been since he’d watched the moon sail her ship through silver clouds? Years, surely. He rummaged through his pants pockets, finding a few gil tucked away. Enough to start with. Mask grinned, swaggering down the sidewalk, and broke into a run for the sheer joy of it.

First stop: The gin-mill three blocks away. Valentine avoided this place because it was too rough-and-tumble for him. Some Turk! Mask elbowed his way through the crowd in front of the bar.

“Oy!” Someone pushed back. “Watch where yer goin,’ fancy boy!”

Mask made sure to step on his foot. The lout grumbled behind him, but got distracted by the TV screen over the bar. Short attention span, sure sign of a weak mind.

Over a beer, Mask studied the people around him. Mostly men, mostly scruffy, pouring beer and whiskey down their throats in between cheering and cursing at the TV. Sports fanatics all, and loud about it. Mask downed his beer and moved slowly through the crowd, stopping here and there to make a comment on the poor performance of the local team. By the time he reached the back of the room, his pockets were pleasingly stuffed with gil, plus a few odds and ends.

Wouldn’t you know, the last mark wasn’t as drunk or as stupid as his friends. He spun around, and Mask lifted both hands, all innocence. 

The man didn’t buy it. “You lookin’ for trouble, punk?”

“No.” Mask flicked open his new switchblade. “I’m offering it.”

The coward backed off, eyes locked on the blade, then shoved his way through the crowd until he made it out the front door. 

Well, that was disappointing.

Mask ran his thumb over the knife’s razor edge, grinning at the thin crimson line that resulted.The cut disappeared almost before it began to sting; how convenient, to have Valentine’s regenerative powers. He closed the knife and slipped it back into his pocket. Such a useful little souvenir. 

This place gave too little entertainment. Time to move on, before the regulars got wise to his light fingers.

\-----

Several blocks away, Mask found a ramshackle little bar with bullet holes in the weathered wooden door, and cracked windows too filthy to see through. Perfect. The door creaked like old bones when he tugged it open, and the floorboards sagged under his feet. The Wolf’s sight came in handy here, letting him see the line-up at the bar. All male, broad-shouldered and bearded, wearing more leather than a houseful of dominatrices. The bartender, a large, bald man with a tattooed head and a ring in his nose, glanced at him and sneered. 

A couple of shaggy heads turned, eyeing him under heavy brows. Mask slid between two of the patrons to reach the bar. 

“Well, looka this,” said the one on his right. “Ain’t he pretty?” 

The man on his left leered. “Lemme buy you a drink, boy.”

“Ohh, please do,” Mask purred.

Right-Hand rose from his barstool. “I seen ‘im first!”

“Aw, fuck you, Rogan!” Left-Hand slammed his half-empty glass onto the bar. Rogan snarled and lunged at him. 

Mask spread his arms, stopping the two goons with a hand on each man’s chest. “Down, boys. No need to shout. Let’s work something out, hmm?” 

He eeled his way out from between them, into the middle of the room, skin prickling under the watchful eyes of his audience. How many could he get riled up all at once? Eyes half-hooded, he hooked his thumbs into his pockets, jeans sliding a couple of inches down his narrow hips. Several pairs of eyes followed the motion, and Mask grinned. 

“Can we do some business here, fellas?”

Left-Hand growled. “I ain’t sharin’.”

Another man laughed. “You’ll break ‘im in half, Gordo!” More laughter followed, men turning, drinks in hand, to watch the fun. The bartender leaned against the barback, arms crossed, smirking.

Mask gave them his best bedroom eyes. “No worries. I’m very...flexible.”

That brought more laughter, catcalls, and several inventive suggestions. Mask pointed at his two admirers. “Decide who’s first, boys. You make the call, winner takes all.”

Rogan roared and launched himself at his rival, fists flying. Left-Hand - Gordo? - easily dodged his blows, while landing several of his own. Rogan went down spitting blood and a couple of teeth. Gordo laughed, giving Mask a thumbs-up and a grin, but taking his eye off of his opponent proved a mistake. Rogan kicked out with both feet, knocking Gordo’s legs out from under him. 

Shouts of encouragement went up all around as the two men grappled, gil rapidly changing hands as the watchers bet on their favorite. Mask skipped out of the way as the combatants rolled toward him.

Someone’s hand caught him under the arm and pulled him back against a rock-solid chest. “Don’t wantcha gettin’ bruised, pretty. At least not yet.” 

Another hand grabbed his ass. Mask growled, jabbing an elbow back into the man’s gut. The fellow let go, and Mask twisted around, blade to the man’s throat. “Don’t. Touch.”

Another shout went up around them, along with the sound of breaking glass, and Mask’s grabby playmate bared his teeth and threw a right hook to Mask’s jaw. 

Mask ducked. The punch hit the man behind him. Like a spark to a gas leak, that set off the whole room. Fists and curses flew freely, the bartender howling like a wounded behemoth as the damages mounted. 

One man, nose dripping blood, pointed at Mask and bellowed, “He started it!” 

Hands reached for Mask, and he scrambled up onto the bar, knife flashing. 

A boot to the head took down one assailant, and the bartender got another with a full pitcher that exploded in a burst of beer and glass shards. Mask shook his head, scattering bits of glass. As he backed away, someone grasped his ankle, and he slipped on the bar’s wet surface. 

He fell full length onto a rolling, grunting, cursing knot of brawlers. They were on top of him before he caught his breath. Bony knuckles ground into his face, a booted foot drove into his side. Fabric ripped as someone tore at his clothes.

Time for emergency measures.  _ “Wake, Wolf!” _

In the back of his mind, Galian snarled, and Mask drew on his ferocity, flowing to his feet with fangs bared and eyes blazing. He struck once, twice, three times, and oh, the bright blood ran so prettily, clearing a space for him to move.

He dodged a thrown chair as he flung himself out the back door and ran, using Galian’s speed to lope easily up the long, narrow alley, then ducked down a side turning. It let him out into a small courtyard, and there was a beautiful thing just standing there waiting for him.

Mask stopped, running his hands lovingly over the huge black beast of a motorcycle. Rummaging in a pocket, he found a bit of wire, and put to use skills he hadn’t tested in much too long. He hadn’t lost his touch; the engine roared to life, and Mask swung onto the bike, crowing in delight.

So sweet it was, so smooth! He rode it out of the courtyard onto the street, cranked it as high as it would go, and sped off into the night, grinning like a lunatic.

Well, that had been fun. What else was there to do in this city…?

\-----

His new toy carried him deep into the moneyed part of town, up a wide boulevard lined with glittering nightclubs and fancy boutiques. He rounded the corners at high speed, the bike leaning at crazy angles, wind whipping his hair back. The ‘cycle responded at the merest touch, tires flying over the pavement, and Mask threw his head back, wild laughter bubbling up his throat. Valentine  _ never  _ had this much fun on his own! 

Ahead, two searchlights crossed the sky, drawing him like a moth. He pulled up in front of a pair of gilded pillars, framing wide-open double doors. Dark-tinted windows, pounding music, flashing lights, people passing through the doors in twos and threes. Mask parked the bike and followed them to the entrance. A little look, a little see…

“Sorry, sir,” said a heavily-muscled man at the door, taller than Mask and wider by a mile. “Proper dress required.”

Mask glanced down at his jeans and leather. He should’ve worn the red cloak; it had a certain panache despite its raggedy state. Better think fast...

“WRO. Official business.”

Muscle-man never blinked. “I.D., please?”

Well, damn. Mask dug in his pockets, but he hadn’t thought to bring Valentine’s I.D. with him. He debated pulling the knife instead, but rejected that idea. He might be crazy, but he wasn’t stupid.

“So sorry,” he said, backing away. He made a show of returning to his bike, searching the saddlebags until, glancing back, he noticed the man at the door busy checking other people’s identification. 

Leaving the bike, he sprinted down the sidewalk to the edge of the building. No one was watching, that was good. Mask ran along the rear of the building until he found the back door, and slipped inside. 

A kitchen pantry, better and better; he flattened himself against the wall, listening. The steady murmur of voices, clanging of pots and pans, hissing of flame, told him the kitchen itself was full, and busy. The small pantry was dimly lit, but his Galian-sight picked out the odds and ends of utensils, empty boxes and what-not scattered about. And there, hanging on the wall, were a couple of long, white aprons. Mask grinned. 

An apron proved as good as a full disguise. No one questioned him as he strode through the kitchen carrying a stack of trays, head ducked down to hide his face. He made it almost to the main kitchen doors when a voice grumbled, “Tie that hair back, dammit!”

“Yessir,” Mask muttered. The chef moved on. Mask set the trays on a side table, tossed the apron after them, and beat it out the kitchen doors. 

He turned into the nearest shadow, beside a tall potted palm, and took a moment to get his bearings. Music bounced and echoed off the walls, lights flashing to the beat; waiters wove through the dancers, bearing trays full of drinks and hors d'oeuvres. Mask stepped out of hiding, snagging a drink off of a tray and giving the waiter a regal nod, as well as a glance at his pointed canines. The waiter moved on, a shade paler than usual.

Mask prowled through the crowd, sipping at his drink; white wine, not his favorite, but it served well enough for now. His eyes touched on dancer after dancer, admiring the curve of a breast here, the angle of a hip there. What did he want tonight? Dark or light, slim or robust, long legs or a full rack? 

Someone nudged him. He turned. Oh, this was nice!

“Hello, darling,” she said, a slender woman in form-fitting black satin, long chestnut hair cascading over her shoulder. “You look lonely.”

“Not anymore,” Mask crooned. He set the glass on a nearby table and took her into his arms. Valentine had no balance, couldn’t dance to save his life. Mask, however, was not Valentine.

She was a small, sweet thing, graceful and quick, familiar in some way he couldn’t pin down. She reminded him of...someone, from somewhere, long ago. He partnered her for several songs, matching her step for step, taking every opportunity to brush her soft curves with a light hand.

Leaning down, he stole a kiss, nipping her lower lip with his sharp teeth. 

She squeaked, touched her mouth, and frowned at the streak of blood on her fingertip. “Well, damn, you’re an eager one, aren’t you?”

“Sorry, pretty.” He kissed the blood off her lips, the bright taste of iron sending sparks crackling down his spine. His arm around her waist pulled her close. “Play with me, pretty lady?”

She opened her mouth to reply, and her eyes went wide, looking over his shoulder. Mask spun around to find the behemoth from the doorway glaring down at him. 

“I told you no admittance without proper dress!”

Mask growled, but the guard was unimpressed. He reached for Mask; before his hand could close on Mask’s arm, Mask slipped aside, pulling his new playmate along with him.

“We’re just leaving,” he hissed, heading for the exit.

“Slow down!” his companion said. “I can’t keep up with those long legs!”

Mask glanced behind. The creep was following, a dark scowl on his ugly face. Mask picked up the pace, and then the girl, gathering her into his arms. She squealed, and hung on tight as he all but ran for the doors. In the back of his mind, Valentine yelled an incoherent objection. Mask ignored him.

He wove through the crowd, past startled eyes and laughing mouths, and ducked out the door to the sound of applause. Ugh, idiots!

Outside, he set the girl down and led the way to the motorcycle. 

“Oh, honey, is this yours?” Eyes shining, she ran a hand over its streamlined bulk, winking at Mask. “You like a wild ride, don’t you?”

He grinned and straddled the seat. “Get on, pretty!”

She hiked up her dress, and he took a moment to admire the view. And then the whole situation went south.

A voice yelled, “There it is! That’s my bike!”

Across the street, a man came hurrying toward them, followed by two other people in WRO city security uniforms.  _ Shit _ .

“Hurry!” he told the girl, but she skipped back a step, fury in her face. 

“Wait, you stole this? What are you trying to pull?”

“Get on, get on!”

“Oh, hell no! You’re not dragging me into this!” She tossed her head and turned, running back toward the club.

Cursing his luck, Mask gunned the engine and shot away from the debacle.

City lights blurred around him like liquid fire as he raced through the streets, leaning into curves as he sped around corners, shaking the security pests off his trail. He took an alley, doubling back and coming up behind them, and flipped them off with one hand, cackling as they dwindled into the distance. 

He went on his way, choosing streets at random, eyes and Galian-senses alert for anything interesting. The night wasn’t over yet. 

There, ahead, what was that? In the shadow of a row of warehouses, he caught a gleam of gunmetal, one little firefly flicker in the darkness. He drove past, enhanced eyesight picking out the row of black-clad figures ranged along the wall. 

Turning the corner down the block, he cut the engine and sat listening in silence. This far away, he heard nothing, but instinct told him something was up. He left the bike, walking back down the street, keeping to the shadows. He didn’t need to be Baby Valentine to use them, Mask could do it too.

The men up ahead were strangers. He counted swiftly: Fifteen. As he watched, one of them signaled to the rest, and they slipped around the side of the warehouse, heading for the rear, Mask unseen on their heels.

What was back here? Had to be someone, or something, worth shooting at. Too bad he hadn’t brought Valentine’s gun!

They reached the space behind the warehouse, and the bullets began to fly.

Men and women scattered. One was hit, and Mask’s eyes zeroed in on the flow of blood. Blood on grey uniforms, familiar, yes, he’d seen them before. He knew them--or Valentine did.

They were WRO, they were cornered, outnumbered, and clearly outshot.

Mask grinned, pulling his knife. Fifteen killers, eight - now seven - WRO agents, and Mask. The odds were against him, and that was just fine.

He took out three men with a boot to the spine before the others even knew he was there. Down to twelve now! Another got off a shot at him, he dodged, and took him in the throat with his knife. Eleven. A fist to the face got another one; he finished him off with the knife and then there were ten.

The agents accounted for another three, firing from the cover of a rusted-out van. Seven, now. Mask kept moving, watching for an opening, diving and rolling to avoid bullets. One nicked his arm, threw him off balance; he went down ass over elbow, and kicked out at the shooter. Bone snapped. The man screamed, and fell onto Mask’s upthrust knife. Six.

Leaping up, he shook blood off his arm, and plunged his blade into someone’s back just as a bullet tore through the man’s torso from the front. Five. He let the body fall, spinning on his heel, seeking another. 

The last four dropped to WRO bullets, and it was all over but the clean-up.

Mask made sure of a couple of them, and cleaned his knife on one’s black shirt. 

“Great timing, Valentine. How’d you know we were here?”

Mask straightened up. The speaker was a woman, tall and slim, with sharp, bright eyes and dark gray hair hanging down her back. She was breathing hard, and wasn’t  _ that  _ distracting? Valentine’s memory supplied a name: Judit.

Considering his options, Mask shrugged, and stuck his knife back in his pocket. 

“Well,” Judit said, “your assistance was appreciated. We’d be dead if not for you.”

He snatched her hand, dropping a kiss on the back of it. “At your service, my lady.”

She blinked, evidently sensing something was off, but her eyes then fell on his injured arm. “Oh gods, you’re hurt! Come over here and let us fix you up.”

“It’s nothing, pretty. It’ll heal. Look,” he said, “doesn’t even hurt!” He slung that arm around her back, pulled her close, and kissed her hard and deep.

She shoved him back, and he went, grinning.

“...the hell, Valentine?!” she sputtered. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Sorry, pretty,” Mask said, but he wasn’t. His only regret was that he hadn’t slipped a hand down to her shapely backside or up under her tunic.

“Battle nerves,” she muttered, turning and stalking away. “Tongue like a godsdamn snake..!”

Mask laughed, long and loud, as he walked up the alley. Dawn lightened the sky to the east. Time to head home, get some sleep….

….and make plans for his next night out.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
